The gates opened.
A pressure rolled through the stadium as ancient locking mechanisms disengaged, stone plates sliding aside with a deep, resonant tremor that carried through bone and marrow. The arena revealed itself fully, and with it, the weight of the moment settled on everyone inside.
The Weave Academy Grand Stadium was colossal beyond reason.
Its floor was forged from layered white stone etched with faint golden lines that pulsed slowly, forming massive concentric sigils beneath the combatants' feet. These sigils were not decorative. They were containment arrays, reinforcement runes, and damage-diffusion matrices layered so densely that even a catastrophic clash would not fracture the arena.
Towering walls curved upward, tier upon tier of seating rising like the ribs of some ancient colossus. Tens of thousands filled them. Students. Nobles. Corporate delegates. Military observers. Church pilgrims. The sound they made was not a cheer at first, but a low, restless hum, like a storm gathering breath.
Then the second years entered.
Forty… sixty… a hundred figures stepped onto the arena floor from multiple gates, boots striking stone in overlapping rhythms. Some walked with confidence, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. Others moved cautiously, scanning their surroundings, already calculating escape routes and sightlines.
And the crowd erupted.
Cheers crashed down like a tidal wave. Names were screamed. Holographic banners burst into existence above the stands, displaying family crests, corporate logos, and academy insignias.
At the center of it all walked Solace Wright.
He moved with deliberate calm, pale irises reflecting the golden glow of the arena sigils. His white hair caught the light, almost luminous against the darker uniforms around him. He was not tall. He did not look imposing.
But he did have otherworldly looks. His pure white hair paired with bluish-white irises was nearly divine. He had a playful charm around him.
Solace lifted his gaze.
Not to the crowd.
But to the tower.
At the far end of the stadium rose a structure so massive it seemed to warp perspective. Five stadiums stacked vertically, each tier reinforced with black alloy and crystal glass. This was not seating for spectators.
This was where power was observed.
Solace's eyes narrowed slightly as he focused.
On the lower levels sat men and women in tailored suits, their expressions sharp, professional, and utterly disinterested in spectacle. These were executives and military contractors, their attention fixed not on flair but on efficiency. On survivability. On return on investment.
A voice near Solace muttered under their breath.
"Gods… look at that."
One man leaned casually against the railing, fingers adorned with minimalist rings that pulsed faintly with embedded tech. His eyes tracked movement below with lazy confidence.
Alexia's father.
Beside him, standing rather than sitting, was another man with silver at his temples and a spine so straight it looked painful. His gaze was colder, sharper.
Leon's father.
He also saw Lex and Vivi's father sitting in an elegant pose.
Solace's eyes drifted upward.
Higher.
The pressure intensified.
At the pinnacle of the tower stood Principal Nicole Richards.
She did not sit.
She stood with her hands resting lightly on the railing, long silver hair falling down her back like liquid moonlight. Her presence was absolute. Calm. Dominant. The stadium bent around her authority whether it wished to or not.
To her right sat the King of Theon.
He was larger than life even seated, clad in a dark ceremonial coat threaded with gold and deep crimson. The air around him felt heavy, ancient, as if history itself had condensed into human form. His expression was unreadable, his gaze sweeping the arena slowly, deliberately.
Near him were his wives, elegant and guarded, and his children—too young to understand fully where they were, yet wrapped in layers of protection thick enough to stop an assassination attempt mid-thought.
And then—
Solace's gaze shifted.
At the King's other side stood Pope Francis Sanguivar.
He wore white robes edged with golden yellow filigree, immaculate and pristine. His expression was serene, gentle even, lips curved in a faint smile meant to soothe.
Something about him made Solace's instincts prickle.
They lingered on certain students.
When his gaze brushed Solace, it paused.
Just for a fraction of a second. His smile widened.
Solace did not look away. Has the oldie gone mad? Why is he smiling at me like that?
The moment stretched.
Then—
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
The stadium lights flared.
A voice boomed across the arena, amplified perfectly without distortion. A familiar face appeared in a massive hologram above the battlefield: a broadcast host, immaculate suit, practiced grin.
"Welcome to the Weave Academy Re-Evaluation Tournament!"
The crowd exploded again.
"ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY second-year candidates," the host continued, spinning as names and silhouettes flashed behind him, "have stepped onto this field today!"
Cheers. Whistles. Applause.
"But only half," he said, raising a single finger, "will advance past the first round!"
A ripple of tension passed through the contestants.
The arena floor shifted.
Stone segments slid apart with mechanical precision, forming elevated platforms, narrow corridors, and open kill zones. Transparent barriers shimmered into place, dividing the battlefield into dynamic zones.
"This year," the host grinned, "we're doing things differently."
"No beasts," he announced.
A murmur ran through the stands.
"No labyrinths. No puzzles."
The grin widened.
"Just you… and each other."
A hush fell.
"This is a point-based elimination round," he explained. "Each participant enters with a base value of one thousand points."
Golden numerals flared above every student's position.
1000.
"When you eliminate another student," the host continued, "you take their points."
A few contestants stiffened. Others smiled.
"But here's the twist," he said, leaning closer to the camera. "If the student you defeat has already accumulated points—say… fourteen thousand…"
The hologram zoomed in on cascading numbers.
"Then all fourteen thousand become yours. You have your bracelets to keep track of your points and to protect you against a lethal attack. To eliminate other students, you have to destroy the bracelet they are wearing"
The implication was brutal.
"Remember, this round has no strict rules."
Snowballing power.
"To qualify," the host concluded, "you must reach the threshold before being eliminated… or before time runs out."
A massive timer ignited above the arena.
ROUND ONE: BEGIN.
TIMER- 29:59